How long have I sat here listening to the lullabies of dead men. They linger in my brain as my pipe wreathes my head in sweet blue smoke. Their rhythms get into my blood and fuse to my bones, making my mind bend to the possible meaning in a single word. What makes them write of wheel barrows and ravens, of pulleys and regal ice cream, and of phantom funerals and the kinetic potential of withered dreams. What is the transcendence of grass.
I struggle to wipe the words off the soles of my shoes and to stop my heart from beating to that American romance in the lyrical beat.
Even now I sit here sighing, moaning loud and softly crying,
Crying to the night-time o'er his dear and lost Lenore
And for all like him before.
I puff again to wash out the taste he leaves with the thick heady pipe tobacco smoke , and slowly I linger on the thought s of men past, and men yet to come, and I am overcome by the smallness of it all. Even the words of a Spanish man over his lost dog last longer in this world than the wit of the wise. A wildman's knowledge of a woman and a God-king's incomplete journey hold in the minds of men a shining place above deeds and actions.

Through thoughts and words they have found immortality.